Eleven
Chapter One
Jake’s Saloon looked like a set from a low-budget Western movie.
John Colton stood just inside the door of the noisy, smoke-filled building and swept his gaze over the milling crowd.
Strange, he thought. Nothing had changed during the years since he’d been in this place. It was Friday night in Hope, Arizona, and the randy cowboys from the ranches in the area were out in force. They had payday money in their pockets, and women on their minds.
It even smelled the same, a mixture of smoke, beer, cheap aftershave and the pungent aroma of male sweat, cattle and horses.
He’d catch a whiff now and then of too much perfume worn by the multitude of women in tight jeans, or short skirts, or whatever they hoped might entice the cowboys on the prowl.
It was all very tacky, but it was real earthy and honest, exactly what it appeared to be, and it suited his needs at the moment just fine.
John unbuttoned his suede, fleece-lined jacket, revealing a dark blue Western shirt with pearly snaps, then tugged his black Stetson low on his forehead.
He made his way forward, inching past the tangle of bodies at the bar to reach the area with cracked-leather booths and scarred wooden tables that edged a worn dance floor.
Garth Brooks was wailing from a brightly colored jukebox about having friends in low places, and a raised platform against a far wall stood ready for the band that would play loud, country-western music later that night.
John slid into a booth that was closer to the congested bar area than he would have preferred, but it was the last available free space he could find.
He shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it across the table to land on the other seat, a clear indication, he hoped, that he wasn’t open to having company. Like the majority of men in the nightclub, he left his Stetson firmly settled on his head.
He leaned back against the stiff leather and sighed deeply.
This was a crazy place to be, he supposed, considering he had some very serious thinking to do. But the walls of his room in the shabby-but-clean motel had been closing in on him, resulting in him pacing like a caged animal.
His jet lag, combined with the shocking, nearly unbelievable news he’d received, had sent his brain into overload, his thoughts chasing in an endless circle in his mind.
Man, oh, man, what was he going to do?
That question was hammering at him unmercifully. He had to have a plan, an answer, by tomorrow, for Pete’s sake.
“Ah, hell,” he said aloud, dragging both hands down his face.
“Rough goin’, cowboy?” a female voice said.
John snapped his head around to see a waitress standing next to the booth, a pad of paper in one hand, a pencil in the other. She was wearing a very short red skirt with white fringe, a matching bolero top that exposed her midriff, and white cowboy boots. A white Stetson was cocked at a jaunty angle on her head.
“Yeah,” John said, “you could say that.”
“Well, you came to the right place,” she said. “Some drinkin’ and dancin’ will take your mind off your troubles. What can I get ya?”
“Beer,” John said.
“What kind?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “I don’t care. Bring me whatever is handy.”
“Whew. You are bummed, big time. Hey, a good-lookin’ guy like you can have your pick of any gal in the place. Get yourself a pretty woman and go for it. Be right back with your beer. You runnin’ a tab?”
“Yeah.”
The waitress hurried away, managing to wiggle her hips despite her fast pace.
Get myself a pretty woman? John thought dryly. Not a chance. That mind-set had gotten him nothing but trouble, was the cause of the mess he was now in.
What in the hell was he going to do?
The waitress returned with a brown bottle and a tall glass. She set them on the table, gave John a coy smile and a wink, then disappeared again into the crowd. John pushed the glass to one side, then took a deep swallow from the bottle.
Nasty, he thought, shuddering slightly. He really didn’t like beer, but he wasn’t about to start drinking hard liquor. He’d never be able to sort through the tangled maze in his mind if his brain was fuzzy from alcohol.
Maybe what he should do was quit thinking for a while, just zone out and observe the foolishness taking place around him. Yeah, that was the ticket. He would take a mental break, then square off against his dilemma again later. It was worth a try, might enable him to come up with a workable solution.
He shifted into a more comfortable position in the booth, then tapped his fingers against the cold bottle in an edgy, restless rhythm. He blanked his mind and watched the age-old mating games being played in an endless series of scenarios.
Half an hour later, the five-piece band appeared on the platform, tuned up, then exploded into loud music with a peppy number that caused a crush of humanity to flow onto the dance floor.
Several women approached John, but he refused each invitation to dance with a barely discernible shake of his head and a nondescript expression on his face.
He ordered another beer that he had no intention of drinking, figuring he’d better spend more money to justify occupying the booth.
Each time the reality of the situation that was plaguing him began to creep into the edges of his mind, he pushed it away, refusing to dwell on it during the mental hiatus he was allowing himself to take.
He simply sat there, as still as a statue, listening to the music, and people-watching.
Laura Bishop stood outside of Jake’s Saloon, telling herself for the third time to open the door and enter the nightclub. She could hear the music and the muted sounds of voices and laughter that were beckoning to her.
A chill wind whipped across the parking lot, causing her to shiver and hunch into her jacket.
This was ridiculous, she told herself. She was standing there like an idiot, freezing to death, because she couldn’t gather the courage to enter the dumb building.
She was acting like a silly child instead of a twenty-nine-year-old woman. Granted, it was totally out of character for her to be out on the town by herself, let alone contemplating going into a bar, for heaven’s sake.
Maybe she should just forget the whole thing, return to the ranch and curl up in front of the fire with the novel she’d been attempting to concentrate on.
Laura frowned as an image of the large, empty living room at the ranch flashed before her mental vision.
No, not tonight. She couldn’t face the long, lonely hours in that house tonight. As the minutes on the clock had ticked slowly by, she’d become more and more depressed.
Her inner voice had been taunting her with a list of what she didn’t have, would probably never have, causing an ache of loneliness to consume her, to grip her with icy tentacles.
Once she’d been accustomed to a busy schedule as social secretary to the four Royal Princesses of Wynborough. Now she had too many idle hours to fill each